Over the weekend

Over the weekend, I reread The Weekend. Among other things, it made me realise how pointless book clubs are.

I love this book, but as I thought about writing this, I realised that no matter what I tell you about The Weekend, or how accurate it is, you may still hate the book. You might think it naff or dumb or light or whatever.

Book clubs must be hell for this reason: each of us has our own personal experience, and writing reflects different aspects of this, in different ways. Even two people who love the same book usually take different things from it. I tend to find this whenever I meet someone who loves a book I do: it's like we're talking energetically in different languages, although in agreement on a common topic. Strange.

In any case, there's something about Peter Cameron's writing that, until now, I haven't been able to put my finger on. I was surprised—and ecstatic—to find that on this particular rereading, I found all manner of new things in what is now a very familiar story, one that appears to be simple and short, with straightforwardly complex characters.

But what I like most about this book—about all of Cameron's writing—is the tenderness with which the author treats his characters. He forgives them over and over for their limitations, their selfishness, their brutal and touching humanity.

And in so doing, he shows us how to forgive them—and forgive ourselves—too.